


The Liberator Vol. III: Hero of Sacrifice

by kjack89



Series: The Liberator: The Heart Becomes Heroic [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Developing Relationship, Gunshot Wounds, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Violence, Secret Identity, Superheroes, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 00:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21311473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: After Enjolras discovers the Liberator's secret identity, Grantaire shares the backstory that led him to become the Liberator.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: The Liberator: The Heart Becomes Heroic [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/692328
Comments: 10
Kudos: 72





	The Liberator Vol. III: Hero of Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it only took me two and half years, but hey, I promised a Vol. III and here it is. There WILL be a Vol. IV and I WILL try to have it completed sooner than 2.5 years from now. Thank you to everyone who has patiently waited for this!!
> 
> Other than that, usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

Before Grantaire could even open his eyes, he knew something was wrong.

It wasn’t the fact that his entire body felt like he’d been run over by a semi-truck, or that he had bruises in places he generally wasn’t sure it was possible to be bruised. It wasn’t even the dull throb that he knew from too many close calls came from a gunshot wound.

It was the fact that he could hear yelling echoing through the halls of his normally silent base of operations.

Which could only mean that, in addition to bringing him back here, Combeferre had brought Enjolras back as well. And Grantaire wasn’t entirely sure that he was ready to face him. Or the secret he’d never intended on Enjolras learning.

With a groan, he pulled himself into a sitting position, making as if to run his fingers through his hair and wincing at the flash of pain when he tried to move. “Fuck,” he hissed, debating if he wanted to try getting up or just texting Combeferre begging him to bring coffee. And alcohol. And probably some percocet.

He was saved from having to make even that tiny movement by Combeferre appearing in his doorway, coffee in hand and a particularly harried look on his face. “Good, you’re up,” he said curtly. “Enjolras wants to talk to you.”

Grantaire groaned again. “Dare I ask why you brought him back here?” he managed, reaching up to accept the mug of coffee.

“He saw your face,” Combeferre said shortly, as if it was an answer.

And in some ways, it was, but it wasn’t the answer Grantaire wanted to hear.

“And if I don’t want to talk to him?” Grantaire asked instead.

Combeferre sighed. “You owe him a conversation, at the very least,” he said, sounding as tired as Grantaire felt. “Whatever explanation you want to give — if any — is entirely up to you beyond that.”

Grantaire made a face before draining the rest of the coffee in one long gulp. He ran a hand over his face and debated whether he felt human enough for the conversation that awaited him. “Fine,” he said. “But I can’t promise Enjolras is going to like what I have to say.”

Combeferre cracked a smile. “Of that certainty, I was never in doubt.” His brow furrowed as he gave Grantaire a once over. “When you’re doing talking to Enjolras, I want to check the stitches on that GSW. You took it an odd angle and I want to make sure the stitches are holding.”

“I’m pretty sure the lack of blood gushing down my leg is probably as good an indication as anything,” Grantaire grumbled. “But fine.”

He stood with another groan, stretching cautiously and wincing as every movement sent twinges of pain through his body. But it was nothing he couldn’t handle, or nothing he hadn’t handled before, at the very least, and after a long moment, he nodded decisively. “Right,” he said. “Better go face the firing squad.”

He didn’t wait for Combeferre’s response, padding barefoot down the hallway towards the kitchen the second cup of coffee he needed to face both the day and an irate Enjolras. He realized belatedly that Combeferre must’ve changed him out of his suit, and he paused in his step, blushing a mottled shade of red at the thought of Enjolras seeing him stripped down to practically nothing.

Then again, that also gave him the tantalizing thought of Enjolras perched next to his bed while Combeferre did his level best to sew his bullet wound back together without having to call Joly in as backup.

Would Enjolras have been stoic, watching it? Or had he, maybe, though Grantaire could barely imagine it, grasped Grantaire’s hand, held it tightly even though the other man was unconscious and past feeling the pain?

Well, at the very least, that thought was going to keep him up at night.

Grantaire wasn’t surprised to see Enjolras in the kitchen, mug of coffee in front of him, and he ignored the sharp way that Enjolras looked up at him, instead heading directly to the coffeepot and pouring himself a second cup. 

Only after he had drained half of it did he finally turn around to meet Enjolras’s eyes. “Morning,” he said, with somewhat false cheer.

Enjolras didn’t smile. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Not if I could get away with not,” Grantaire answered honestly. Enjolras recoiled, something like hurt flashing across his face before being replaced by steely resolve, and Grantaire sighed. “C’mon,” he said, jerking his head away from the kitchen. “Let’s take this elsewhere.”

He led Enjolras to main room, ignoring the images flashing across the screen of Combeferre’s computer and instead sinking down on the couch, letting out a sigh of relief as he did. Enjolras glanced around, cradling his mug of coffee in both hands. “You know, I expected more for a secret lair,” he said after a long moment.

Grantaire snorted. “Yeah, well, not all of us have trust funds to pay for swanky digs. Besides, the place is rent-controlled and the landlord didn’t seem care about the, uh, modifications I needed to do in order to make the place functional.”

“If you don’t have a trust fund, how do you pay for your equipment?” Enjolras asked mildly, picking Grantaire’s grappling hook gun off Combeferre’s desk and looking at it with a critical eye.

“Military contracts, and will you put that down before you hurt yourself?”

Enjolras scowled but nonetheless set it down before moving to sit across from Grantaire. “Now can I ask you what I really want to know?”

“You can ask,” Grantaire said, after a long moment. “But I reserve the right to not answer.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Self-incrimination and the fact that I don’t have my attorney present, for starters,” Grantaire said evenly. “The fact that there are some secrets even you don’t need to know, for another.”

For a moment, it looked like Enjolras wanted to press the issue further, but then he shook his head before taking a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Grantaire took a sip of coffee. “Is that honestly your number one concern?” he asked mildly. “Not my tragic backstory or why I’m doing this?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I already know why you’re doing this,” he said impatiently. “You care about justice, and—”

Grantaire snorted. “Justice?” he repeated, incredulous. “Enjolras, this is me we’re talking about, not you. In what world do I give enough of a fuck about justice to do all this?”

“And here I thought we were talking about the Liberator,” Enjolras shot back.

“Sure,” Grantaire said tiredly. “That too.”

Enjolras glared at him. “Fine,” he said, biting off the word. “Then why are you doing this?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Enjolras looked exasperated. “Of course I want to—”

“No, I mean it,” Grantaire interrupted, struggling to keep his expression and his tone as neutral as possible. “Do you really, truly want to know? Even if the answer isn’t what you want to hear?” Enjolras stared at him, and Grantaire added, a little desperately, “Even if the answer changes how you feel about the Liberator?”

“Grantaire—”

Enjolras broke off, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long moment, he jerked a nod. “Yes,” he said. “I really want to know.”

Grantaire jerked his head in a nod and stared down into his coffee mug, now wishing he was drinking something stronger. “My dad used to beat me,” he said abruptly. “Well, he mainly beat my mom, but that’s just because I don’t think he ever thought I was important enough to merit a beating.”

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras offered, a little tentatively, but Grantaire waved him off.

“It was a long time ago,” he said dismissively. “But once I started school, it wasn’t just my dad — the kids there used to beat me up, too, so my mom did the only thing she could and enrolled me in every martial arts class she could.” He shrugged. “The kids at school learned their lesson, but my dad—”

He broke off, his expression twisting. “He was a CPA by day and book cooker for the mob by night, and to top it off, he was a mean drunk with a meaner right hook. And one day, when he hit me, I hit back.”

A beat of silence, then—

“He died four days later. He never woke up from the coma I put him in.”

Enjolras was staring at him, but Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to look at him, couldn’t bring himself to see the expression on his face, the disappointment, or the fear, or—"

“My mom and I lied to the police about one happened, said he’d gotten in a drunk driving accident. His BAC was twice the legal limit when we got him to the hospital so it’s not like the cops asked a lot of questions.” Grantaire’s voice turned bitter, and he had to swallow against the bile that rose in the back of his throat. “But for weeks after, I lay awake at nighttime wondering if this made me a murderer.”

“It didn’t,” Enjolras said fiercely, and now Grantaire did glance up, unsurprised if a little gratified at the fury radiating from Enjolras. “It doesn’t. It was self-defense.”

Grantaire shrugged again. “Maybe,” he said, as if he didn’t quite believe it. “But that didn’t stop me from wondering if I would wind up killing someone again.”

Enjolras didn’t seem to have anything to say to that, and Grantaire took a deep breath before continuing, “Then I went off to college, and I met you, and Les Amis. And when I learned about all your plans to change things without violence — I mean, I don’t really care about the whole change part, but the nonviolence part — I wanted to believe that.”

He sighed heavily and shook his head, something between a smile and a grimace twisting his lips. “And maybe I would’ve even managed it, if it weren’t for one day…”

Grantaire trailed off, and Enjolras leaned forward, just slightly. “One day what?” he asked softly.

“One day, you were attacked.” Enjolras blinked, surprise and something like confusion mingled in his expression. “You were still in law school, clerkin for one of the more liberal judges, and someone attacked you outside the courthouse with a knife.”

“I remember,” Enjolras said, his voice low. “But I didn’t think you would. I was barely scratched.”

“How could I not remember?” Grantaire whispered, trying not to sound as pained as he felt, his heart beating a painful rhythm in his chest as much at the memory as it had that day all those years ago. “I tossed and turned for weeks thinking about you being attacked. Trying to think of ways to keep you safe.”

Enjolras shook his head. “But—”

“I swear to God, Enjolras, if you ask why, you’re stupider than anyone has ever given you credit for.” Enjolras closed his mouth and managed a glare that Grantaire mostly ignored. “I had to keep you safe, but I didn’t know how. I couldn’t do it myself in broad daylight, you’d never let me—” Enjolras made a small noise of what might have been protest but Grantaire again ignored him. “—so I had to come up with some kind of secret identity. And so the Liberator was born to keep you safe from the perps you couldn’t keep behind bars, the ones who would have no hesitation killing you.”

Grantaire shrugged as if his simple shrug could diminish everything he’d done over the past few years. “I got the only person I knew cared as much about your safety as I did to help with the tech, and it was Combeferre’s idea to arrange for some military contracts to pay the start up cash and then — well, you know the rest.”

He finished a bit lamely and busied himself with draining the rest of his coffee, again not wanting to look at Enjolras’s face for fear of what he might see there. “So you did all of this — for me?” Enjolras asked slowly.

Grantaire shrugged again. “Well, uh, it started that way, at least,” he muttered. “Then it sort of turned into trying to protect the whole damn city.”

“Why?”

“Because you love this city,” Grantaire said simply. “And if you’re willing to fight to keep it safe, how could I not?”

The words were barely out of his mouth before Enjolras had crossed to him, leaning down and kissing him, something just as fierce as was in his tone earlier coming through in the kiss. For one long moment, Grantaire kissed him back, holding onto him with a desperate grip, unwilling or unable to end the moment too soon.

Then he pulled away. “Enjolras, stop,” he ordered softly.

“What—” Enjolras started, and Grantaire shook his head.

“I can’t be who you want me to be,” he said, echoing the words he had said to Enjolras once before, every word hurting more than the bullet wound he’d taken the night before.

Enjolras frowned slightly. “What are you talking about?” he asked, somewhat impatiently. “You’re exactly who I’ve always thought you were—”

“Oh yeah?” Grantaire scoffed. “And who is that, exactly? Because last time I checked, you thought I was a useless waste of space.”

Enjolras’s eyes flashed. “I’ve never once said that,” he said, his voice low.

“Maybe not, but it doesn’t change the fact that prior to knowing I was a masked vigilante, you thought I was good for nothing.” Enjolras recoiled but said nothing in response to that, and Grantaire barked a dry, humorless laugh. “Exactly my point.”

“Fine, but I know better now, and I’m allowed to take recently discovered exculpatory evidence into account,” Enjolras shot back.

Grantaire snorted. “Didn’t realize this was suddenly a trial, Counselor.”

“Well, if it is, you’re the one trying your damnedest to condemn yourself.”

Grantaire threw his hands up in frustration. “Because I am condemned!” he half-shouted. “Have you not been paying attention, Enjolras? I’m a murderer!”

“It’s not murder,” Enjolras said firmly. “It’s justice.”

Grantaire bit back the hysterical laughter he could feel bubbling in his chest. “That’s a helluva position to take as someone who’s spent his entire career arguing against the death penalty.” He ran a tired hand across his face, all the fight seeping out of him and just leaving him feeling exhausted and defeated. “I’ve annointed myself judge, jury, and executioner. Who gave me that right?”

Enjolras shook his head. “When the system is broken, what other choice is there?” he demanded.

“Fixing the system instead of tearing it down, for starters,” Grantaire returned evenly.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “And if no one will fix the system?”

“That’s why the city needs you, Enjolras,” Grantaire told him softly. “They need someone who understands the system and its brokenness, someone who knows what needs to be done and is willing to do everything to fix it.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do?”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow at him. “Well at least recently, you’ve been pretty content to let criminals walk and face the Liberator instead of facing justice.” Enjolras shook his head but Grantaire didn’t let him interrupt. “You are losing the parts of you that I believe in most, and I can’t just watch that happen.”

“What are you saying?” Enjolras asked quietly.

“I’m saying…” Grantaire trailed off, closing his eyes for a brief moment and swallowing hard before continuing. “I’m saying that I always thought there would be a day, when the city no longer needed the Liberator, and maybe then, you and I—”

He broke off as if he couldn’t quite bear to actually say the words, couldn’t bear to admit to a dream that he knew in his heart could never be. “And what, you think the city will always need the Liberator?” Enjolras asked.

“No.” Grantaire met his glare evenly. “My fear is that if you keep going down this path, you will always need the Liberator.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Grantaire—”

“Go home, Enjolras,” Grantaire ordered.

“But—”

“Go home,” Grantaire repeated. “I have work to do.”

For a moment, it looked like Enjolras might argue further, but then his expression hardened and he turned, storming away back down the hallway toward the kitchen and Combeferre.

Grantaire closed his eyes for a brief moment, struggling against the tears he could feel pricking in the corners of his eyes. “Ow,” he whispered, rubbing the bullet wound in his thigh, but the pain he felt had absolutely nothing to do with his battle wounds, and everything to do with the work he had to do, and the work he feared now more than ever would never be done.

**Author's Note:**

> The Liberator will return in Vol IV: A Heroic Resolve.


End file.
